


Hand-to-Hand Combat

by dancingwithwings



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (and also very clueless), Angst, Arthur Pendragon Is King, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Merlin is suffering, Royal Wedding, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9949892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingwithwings/pseuds/dancingwithwings
Summary: Merlin sighs. The reprimand for his sharp tongue is coming, he can feel it, and for once he regrets his jibe: it’s the King’s wedding day, the castle is hectic, and everyone is far too on edge for joking around.“Leave the pans, Merlin,” Arthur says heavily, and follows that up with something even Morgana could've never predicted, even with all the magic in the seven kingdoms.When Merlin came to Camelot all those years ago, he would never have expected to be dancing with the King on his wedding night. Then again, there are some thing even prophets can't foretell.





	

_I should really stop being surprised when people do that to me,_ Merlin thinks morosely, watching from the alcove as pans clatter over the floor.

“Merlin,” Arthur says with his fist still bunched up in his servant’s shirt, face painted with a look of utter disgust. “Is there _anything_ you’re actually capable of?”

“Sorry sire,” Merlin bobs unconvincingly and moves to go after the pans, most of which are now causing a commotion in the corridor. Arthur’s hand remains firmly on his shoulder, obstructing his movement, and he gives the King an exasperated look. 

“Yes, I was being stupid. Too caught up in your wedding preparations to be paying attention.” Sarcasm dripping, Merlin throws up his hands. “But don’t you worry, sire – I’ll wash the pots again, and maybe next time no turnip-heads will startle me as I return them to the store cupboard.” He gives a tetchy nod. “Sound good?”

Shaking his head – _what an idiot_ – he makes it about two centimetres into the corridor before Arthur is dragging him bodily back into the alcove. Throwing him against the wall with a little too much force to be necessary, he looks his servant directly in the eye (Merlin ignores the little hiccup in his chest as he does so) and grimaces. 

Merlin sighs. The reprimand for his sharp tongue is coming, he can feel it, and for once he regrets his jibe: it’s the King’s wedding day, the castle is hectic, and everyone is far too on edge for joking around.

“Leave the pans, Merlin,” Arthur says heavily, and follows that up with something even Morgana could've never predicted, even with all the magic in the seven kingdoms.

“I need you to teach me how to dance.”

(The silence that stretches between them at this point is probably the longest Merlin has ever been properly speechless. As in: physically unable to talk. The romantic in him would probably say that the sight of Arthur so vulnerable had been his cause of quietude; however, the true answer would be that he was trying not to choke on the huge gulp of air he’d inhaled at his master’s declaration.)

(Needless to say, he doesn’t mention either of these factors to the man in question.) 

“Let me get this straight,” Merlin says in disbelief, once he’s finally got his lungs under control. “You need _me_ to teach you how to _dance?_ ”

“Not so loud,” Arthur hisses through clenched teeth, and looks around as if all the knights of Camelot are listening. Thankfully, none of them are, though the tension doesn’t leave Arthur’s shoulders: eyes narrowed and legs braced, he looks as if he’s facing one hundred armed berserkers, rather than just his servant in the cloisters. Merlin would probably think it were sweet, if he weren’t acutely aware of the cramped situation and the crimson staining Arthur’s cheeks.

( _Shut up, brain,_ he begs, and his mind responds by suggesting a whole host of _other_ ways they could be using this alcove.)

“That’s what servants are for, right?” Arthur spits, jerking Merlin out of his thoughts and refusing to meet his eyes. “You do whatever I ask. If I need you to bail me out, you do it. _Confidentially.”_ His eyes burn a hole in the wall, directly to the right of Merlin’s head. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll have your head on a pike.” 

“It’s the night before your _wedding,_ Arthur,” Merlin says incredulously, ignoring the threat as usual. “You’re telling me you _don’t know how to dance.”_

“Well of course I don’t!” Arthur shouts, then claps his hands over his mouth as the sound resonates through the corridor. Once the confused servants outside have dissipated, he breathes again. “That’s why I’m asking, you idiot – my father never told me. Can you seriously imagine him teaching me how to waltz?” 

Arthur shakes his head, and Merlin tries fruitlessly to forget his new mental image of Uther in a ballgown. 

“He’d also have to know the woman’s part, which is just plain ridiculous,” Arthur adds, oblivious his servant’s strife. “You can’t have the King of Camelot pretending to be his future daughter-in-law.”

Merlin considers the idea and regrets the thought immediately. The other implications of this statement, however, take a little while longer to surface. 

“Wait,” Merlin says slowly. “You expect _me_ to know the woman’s part.”

Arthur nods.

“Arthur, _why would I know the woman’s part?”_

“Well, I did catch you with one of Morgana’s dresses that one time.” Arthur waves a hand dismissively, ignoring Merlin’s protests because _will he ever let the dress incident go?_ Never. “It’s only a natural assumption.”

“That dress was _not for me._ And I don’t know how to dance either! Ask one of the maidservants. Ask _Gwen,_ for heaven’s sake – I’m sure she wouldn’t care, everyone knows the first dance is just for show,” Merlin splutters, feeling his ears glow red. Arthur, thankfully, is too tied up in his own predicament to notice.

“I can’t ask Guinevere – are you mad? This is our first dance together: I don’t care if it’s just a tradition. I need to demonstrate how romantic I can be. It’s our wedding, Merlin.” Arthur finally looks him in the eye, his face contorting awkwardly in his attempts to get the words out. _“Please.”_

As Merlin gapes, dumbstruck – _did he just say please? He must have, this is too stupid even for a dream_ – Arthur backtracks. 

“Besides,” he offers. “I don’t really need you to know what you’re doing. I just need a partner with whom I can practise the moves. _Now,_ ” he emphasises, jerking his head in the direction of the corridor. “We have to start now. There’s no time to lose – the dancing is this evening and I need to be absolutely perfect.”

“You said ‘please’,” Merlin repeats, still feigning a state of shock. After a moment of deliberation and enjoying Arthur’s unimpressed stare, he rolls his eyes. _To hell with it._ “Oh, go on then. How could I resist.”

“Perfect,” Arthur says, a relieved smile alighting on his cheeks. “Let’s go. We can practise in the hall over at the other end of the castle, to make sure nobody sees us.” He gestures to the corridor. “After you, then.” 

Merlin stamps down the flutter in his stomach and grins deviously, pretending he hasn’t ever thought of this opportunity before. Ever since Gwen came on the scene, Arthur’s been besotted, which pretty much demolished any fleeting chances: Merlin’s briefly indulged-in fantasies of waltzing in the halls are dreams of times gone by. Not that he’d been interested in Arthur then – that’s more of a recent development – but the courtship had still been enough to make him feel sick: perpetually a background noise, he’d laugh at the flirting, stick on a smile and wonder exactly what the aching in his chest could mean.

And now, just in time for the wedding, it’s flourished into a full-blown crush: perhaps not love, but strong enough to let Merlin know that agreeing to dance with Arthur is a _very bad idea._ Merlin’s impeccably abysmal timing has always been a matter of hilarity with the knights, but little had he known that the uncanny awkwardness could spread from womens’ fripperies to matters of the heart.

Nevertheless, the invitation is almost like a challenge. 

Merlin has never been one to lose to his King. 

_Making me uncomfortable, is he? Well, two can play at that game._

“Best not follow me for a while, sire,” Merlin says devilishly. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think we were doing… _other things_ in this alcove now, would we?”

With Arthur spluttering behind him, Merlin walks out into the corridor and feels every muscle in his chest unfurl. The pair of narrowed eyes boring into his back promise payback to come; for the moment, however, he’s winning. 

He allows himself a tiny smile, closes his eyes and careers straight into Sir Elyan, who upends an entire vase of roses on the floor.  
Ignoring the laughter coming from behind him, Merlin sighs and bends to clean up the shattered glass. Arthur emerges from the alcove to clap Elyan on the shoulder, a revengeful grin painting his face. 

_Well,_ Merlin thinks bitterly. 

_So much for a dramatic exit._

***

The cold air of the hall settles deep into Merlin’s bones; he fidgets, wrapping his arms around his body to keep him warm. Arthur picked the one hall that is not to be decorated for the wedding celebrations, and its emptiness is almost an insult to the servants’ hard work: the rest of the castle is festooned in oceans of flowers, each and every surface covered. Twice, giggling serving-girls have stuck cherry blossoms in Merlin’s hair. He runs a hand through it to check for more.

(As he does so, he wonders if mistletoe will be involved in the decorations, and hopes against it for both the sake of his sanity and Arthur’s.)

(And Gaius’. Every aging inhabitant of the castle seems attracted to the man – mostly female, though with a few interesting male additions, a mystery much debated among the knights and younger servants. Merlin makes a mental note to ask him for his secrets, then hurriedly decides against it to avoid a horde of elderly admirers.)

A fresh bout of shivers wrack Merlin’s body. An unfortunate side effect of Arthur’s decision is that no one has lit the fire today: this means that not only is his entire body jittering, his only hope of heat is becoming an enthusiastic dancer. It’s either than or freezing to the floor.

(Merlin weighs up his options and hurriedly decides on the former.)

_If his Majesty ever decides to show up._

His wonderings grow increasingly wilder as he shivers on the cold marble, ranging from Guinevere’s bouquet choice to whether any unfortunate ex-suitors are scheduled to grace the wedding. All of his thoughts aim to distract him from the two main issues of this morning: his fluctuating feelings for Arthur, and where the hell the man has gone.

The impromptu alcove meeting had taken place a total of twenty minutes ago. There has been no sign of Arthur since. In Merlin’s eyes, this is either highly concerning or a welcome distraction: though he’s leaning towards worrying, he can’t quite decide which.

(Part of him wonders if this is all an elaborate plan to get him out the way for the ceremony. In this case, he’s more than happy to take the fall.)

With every passing second, Merlin is regretting his decision more and more. In the close quarters of the alcove it had been so hard to resist: Arthur had been there, _right there,_ and he is a servant after all – saying ‘no’ isn’t part of the job description. Standing here now, however, with his stomach miraculously replaced by some kind of writhing serpent and no bloody idea how to dance, he’s starting to think he may have made a mistake.

Falling for your master is hard enough. Aforementioned master asking you to teach him how to waltz, complete with eye-gazing, hand-clutching and cartfuls of vomit-inducing romance on the side, is about as simple as getting a straight answer from Kilgharrah.

(i.e. completely and utterly impossible.)

 _As if literally having to dress him every morning wasn’t enough,_ Merlin thinks miserably, then attempts to extract his mind from the deluge of ‘shirtless Arthur’ thoughts that burst in uninvited. _He’s getting married! To Gwen, not you. You spent the best part of three years getting them together: may as well actually enjoy it._

And he is. He thinks. There’s just that little part of him – tucked away beneath his lungs, digging its claws into his chest – that breathes fire every time he sees them together, fights the urge to rip down every wedding decoration in the place. He doesn’t think he’s in love with Arthur, no, not yet; it’s just the unwillingness to surrender him to someone else, to stretch fated bonds that encapsulate them both like ivy. 

Sometimes, Merlin sees their destinies as some twisted prophets’ game. Words spoken simply to incarcerate his future: tying two boys together in a land stalked by laws of every kind. _Perhaps this dancing is some kind of fabled challenge,_ Merlin wonders as he fidgets in this impossibly large, impossibly empty room. _Maybe these feelings are all part of the plan._

(He also wonders if it’s not actually that complicated, and the prophets just didn’t incorporate Arthur’s pectoral muscles into the equation.) 

Nevertheless, the petal scent infiltrates his brain, forcing him to admit that when push comes to shove, he’s the servant who fell for the King and nothing more. He’s the sob story and Gwen is the success: that’s the way it’s always going to be, whether the prophets foretell it or not. Arthur is getting married to Guinevere, and Merlin is doomed to teach him how to dance, and the little beast under his lungs needs to file down its claws and expire.

(He recalls a time when Arthur’s eyes were only for him: soft and full of wonder, gazing when he thought Merlin could not see. Affections lost among years of naivety, a million chances gone. _After all,_ he thinks, _what more could a servant and a master be to one another?)_

(Too late, Merlin has finally begun to know.)

***

“Sorry for the delay: I was held up by one of the cooks,” Arthur announces a few minutes later, striding into the hall and scaring every single living daylight out of Merlin. Noticing his servant jump and recalling the earlier incident, he rolls his eyes. “Something about a shortage of pans in the kitchen. I wonder why that could be.”

Merlin frantically stuffs away each and every amorous thought he’s ever had about the King and arranges his features into some kind of benign smile. “No idea, sire. Might I suggest you check the alcoves?”

“I believe that’s your job, Merlin.” Arthur fixes him with a searching stare, the one that makes Merlin throw up every internal barrier he owns in order to stop himself from spilling his every secret. Oblivious to his servant’s every struggle he may seem, but Merlin reckons the King is more perceptive than he looks. 

“Right you are, sire. Shall I see to that now?” _Perhaps I can escape, and this whole disaster will be over before it starts._

“The kitchenware can wait, Merlin. There are more pressing matters at hand.” Arthur finally breaks his gaze, face turning an impressive shade of petunia pink. _Curses._

(Merlin hadn’t even known petunias existed until two hours earlier, when an errant bunch of garlands had cascaded down the stairs and almost brought him with them.)

In any normal circumstances, he would tease the King about these unfortunate blood rushes – _bad thoughts, bad thoughts, don’t think about any_ other _potential blood rushes_ – but he’s aware that his own face may mimic the King’s quite nicely. And maybe his ears, and the back of his neck to boot. Blushing discreetly has never been one of Merlin’s virtues.

“Get over here, then,” Arthur says abruptly, cutting off Merlin’s deteriorating train of thought, and so the descent into hell begins.

***

“I think you put your hand… there?”

“That sounded like a question, sire. Don’t forget, I’m just as clueless as you are.”

“Are you questioning my ballroom knowledge, Merlin?”

“You literally asked me to teach you how to dance. You don’t have any knowledge to question in the first place.”

Arthur groans and resists the urge to kick his servant in the shin. “You see, normally I’d tell you to shut up and get out, but I have to admit that in this case you’re actually right. I have no idea what I’m doing. And neither, apparently, do you.”

“I did warn you,” Merlin shrugs, then tries to avoid hyperventilating as Arthur takes his hand and places it decisively on his shoulder.

 _Somewhere, a prophet is laughing,_ he thinks miserably, then makes a mental note never to mention this incident to Kilgharrah. Ever, upon pain of torturous death.

Arthur takes his other hand and manoeuvres them into some kind of ballroom hold.

“Alright. So,” Arthur says, shifting awkwardly. “I think I move this _there._ ” He sticks a leg between Merlin’s feet. “Then you move backwards and around.” Completely oblivious to Merlin’s inner meltdown, he swings them both and damn near trips over his own legs: after regaining his balance, he steps forward again. “We keep moving in a circle. That’s the essence of a waltz, right?”

“I think so,” Merlin squeaks, and tries to contemplate anything but the surreal feeling of Arthur’s hand in his. “Is there any music?” he suggests as they turn. “It might be easier to practise with a rhythm.” His true motive – being able to focus on the music and nothing else – goes unsaid, but hangs in the air between them anyway.

Arthur fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “Ah yes, Merlin, how could I forget. Let me get the entire court band in here to serenade us while we waltz like star-crossed lovers. Just to add to the humiliation.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Sometimes, Merlin, I really do wonder about you.”

“You and me both,” Merlin mutters under his breath, and evades Arthur’s questioning glare.

“Shall we practise, then? I think I’ve mostly got it. Then we can go our separate ways and do everything in our power to forget this ever happened.” Arthur grasps his hand tighter and steers him in a circle, quarter-turn by quarter-turn, his movements stilted but slightly more coordinated than they had been at the start. He steps on Merlin’s toes and they both wince. 

“Am I doing it properly?” he asks suddenly, voice small with insecurity. “I’m just pretending that I know what I’m doing, but I feel no better about this than before. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.”

Another Merlin might tease Arthur for this sudden incompetence, but a hint of self-doubt is peeking through: something the King usually barricades under lock and key. It’s these rare occasions that endear Arthur to Merlin, along with the knowledge that only one person ever sees them. 

(Even Arthur’s betrothed, Guinevere, could not be party to this tiny moment of weakness. Only Merlin.) 

If this is the closest he ever gets – a glimpse behind the many closed doors of Arthur’s mind – then he thinks he could be happy; forgo a kiss on the cheek for a lifetime of servitude, the ability to remind Arthur of all the things he’s yet to be.

The King’s eyes are still childishly wide, brimming with insecurity, and for a moment Merlin imagines he can see something else in the irises. The smoke of a fire long dead, a hiccupping heartbeat that reaches a time and place where something, anything might be.

(Camelot, Merlin knows, is not that place.)

“Only you could make dancing so violent,” he says, prompting a tiny quirk of Arthur’s lips, and they waltz on.

***

Merlin’s not sure how long they dance, only that Arthur’s improving by the second, and it’s a lot more exhausting than it looks.  
Surprisingly, he’s not too shabby at it either.

“You know, Merlin, for someone who’s never done it before, you’re not too bad at this,” Arthur says as they sweep around the floor. Merlin smiles slightly despite himself; any resonance the compliment may have had, however, is completely destroyed as Arthur reopens his mouth. “Are you sure this wasn’t what you were doing with Morgana’s dresses? Dancing does look a lot more impressive with a skirt and train, I admit. Come on, you can tell me.” He winks. “The colour did suit you, after all.”

Merlin kicks him in the shin and barely fends off his battering fists.

“Seriously, though,” Arthur ponders as they resume their waltz, flicking his partner on the forehead for good measure. “I’m surprised you haven’t done this before. You’re a – well, you’re not a terrible-looking guy, Merlin. There must have been _somebody_ you’ve wanted to dance with. A girl back in Ealdor, or perhaps your beloved tavern. _Someone.”_

“Not anyone available,” is the only reply Arthur gets to that, and he can tell by the thorns surrounding the statement that it’s the only one he can ever expect, either.

 _(Shame,_ a voice in his head says, a pre-Gwen voice, a voice that crops up sometimes on early mornings when his brain isn’t quite functioning yet and Merlin’s grin is made of sunlight.)

(Arthur gags the voice and shoves it back into the recesses of his mind, well and truly muffled. He’s getting married. The time for childhood crushes is over.)

“Well, I suppose you are a man of many talents, as you keep reminding me,” he says, enjoying the half-smile that spreads over Merlin’s face, and enjoying destroying it even more. “Let’s see if you can prove that. I hope you’re ready to be dipped.”

He takes almost sadistic pleasure in Merlin’s abrupt change of expression – from embarrassed contentment to _utter dread._ “What?”

“It’s a thing people do,” Arthur shrugs. “I don’t think it’s part of a waltz. But it looks fun. We should try it.”

“Your idea of ‘fun’ is hand-to-hand combat and killing wildlife in a monster-infested forest,” Merlin protests, absolute horror still drenching his eyes. “Forgive me if I fail to agree.”

“Hunting _is_ fun. You’re just too much of a coward to enjoy it.”

“Shut up and dip me,” Merlin responds with a glare, and Arthur tips his head to the ceiling and laughs.

(Being face-to-face with that gorgeous Adam’s apple does nothing to calm Merlin’s state of outright panic, but it is a rather gratifying sight.)

“Okay. So, I think we just take an extra step at the end here, and you kind of swing across – careful, I don’t want anyone to have to clean your brains off the floor, you’re heavier than you look – and lean back. That’s it. Easy.” Arthur sounds unreasonably optimistic, which further proves Merlin’s doubts: nothing the King finds effortless has ever been a matter of much simplicity before. However, dancing is very different from wielding a blade or trying to make sense of political agreements, so Merlin throws caution to the wind and takes his hand again.

“Go on then. Someone’s going to walk in on us soon. Best get it over and done with.”

Arthur swings him round from the box step into a dip, and suddenly his face is _far too close_ for Merlin’s comfort.

“Sire,” Merlin stammers, unable to stop the blood pumping to his cheeks and shoving all thoughts of kissing from his brain, “you can pull me up now.”

“Not yet, you buffoon,” comes the reply, and Merlin makes a mental note to find every prophet he can find and kill them slowly and without mercy. Kilgharrah – _bloody back-stabbing dragon_ – included. 

(Basically, anyone who sees fit to have him dancing with the love of his pitiful life, on the day of their wedding to the _future Queen of Camelot._ And have aforementioned love _dip him romantically_ in a deserted hall with every chance of the bride walking in.)

(Merlin has good impulse control most of the time, but this situation is _really_ testing his resolve.)

 _Kiss me,_ he thinks stupidly, and once that thought breaks through the barriers all is lost: every notion he’s bundled away is swirling through his brain, and Arthur’s face is _just so close,_ the urge to run his hands through his hair astounding… _but I’ll be fired if I do…_ what does it matter anyway? 

One of these days, all of this will end. He’ll be just that moment too late, or his magic will be found out and he’ll die at Arthur’s hand. Deep down in Merlin’s soul, he knows their destiny is bound to end in tears: whatever horror awaits them, he doubts a kiss or two could change it. 

What’s the difference if he’s charged with treason or not? May as well go out on a high.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, shattering the moment completely. “Your heart’s beating really fast.”

(The words replacing Merlin’s thoughts are mostly unrepeatable, but against all odds, he manages to form a couple of sentences.)

“Of course it is. I’m scared you’re going to drop me.”

Arthur’s face contorts in a scowl; Merlin thinks he spies a tinge of disappointment in his eyes, but dispels the notion quickly, along with every dangerous thought that crosses his mind. _Stupid,_ he thinks angrily, arranging his face into a mask of serenity. _Your destiny is greater than this._

“You watch out, or I will,” Arthur says, spinning Merlin out of the dip and into another waltz step. 

Merlin wills his heart to slow down, but it steadily ignores his every wish and concentrates on beating right out of his chest. _You traitor_ , he thinks miserably.

“Seriously though. You look like a dying deer,” Arthur says, dipping him once more and bending over him predatorily. “Why is that?” 

This time, Merlin is unable to answer, and Arthur’s face is becoming just too close to bear when he hears the tell-tale creak of the door behind him. Arthur’s hands disappear from Merlin’s sides, and all of a sudden he’s getting very close and personal. 

(Oh, not with Arthur, mind. With the floor.)

_Thud._

_I knew he was going to drop me._

“Sire, the feast preparations are…” Leon stop midsentence in the doorway, surveying the carnage before him. Merlin offers a shaky grin from the floor. “What the devil is going on here?”

“Dancing,” Merlin declares, at the same time as Arthur says “hand to hand combat.”

After a two-second glaring match – mostly comprised of Arthur staring down at his servant in his _I-will-have-your-head-on-a-pike_ kind of way – Merlin concedes. 

“Practising hand to hand combat.”

Leon’s eyebrows are in danger of disappearing off his face, but he composes himself quickly. “Of course, sire. I was just going to inform you that the kitchen is almost finished with the food for the feast. There was a slight delay due to a pan shortage –“ Arthur grabs Merlin by the scruff of his neck and hauls him up to a standing position – “but that’s all been sorted now.” 

Noticing Arthur’s crimson cheeks, he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry for the intrusion, my lord. Lady Guinevere said I’d find you here.”

Arthur turns to Merlin, a look of horror dawning in his eyes. 

“She said she saw you in an alcove earlier on,” Leon continues. “Your conversation was supposedly quite amusing.” 

He pauses, noticing Arthur spluttering for breath. The King looks worryingly ready to explode. “I’ll take my leave now, sire. The ceremony is starting in around an hour.”

He bows out of the doorway and Arthur grabs Merlin by the collar, wheezing.

“She – she heard – us talking about –“

“I did warn you, sire,” Merlin chokes, writhing under Arthur’s strong grip. “At least she didn’t mind – Leon said she found it funny, I thought she would, she’s the kind of person to do that –“

Arthur drops him unceremoniously and he rubs at his neck, wincing. “Careful, dollophead, you don’t know your own strength. You could have taken my head off.”

“I still might! She heard us, Merlin,” he grumbles, pacing angrily in a circle. “Our dancing was all for nought: I could have just practised with her, like you said. Now she’s going to laugh at me.” For all his pretences, he seems genuinely miserable, and in the midst of this mess Merlin’s heart goes out to him. 

“All for nothing,” he mumbles dejectedly. “I made a fool of myself by dancing with you and it was all for nothing.”

(Merlin’s heart thuds back into his chest and shatters.)

But a moment later, Arthur looks up. Somehow – deep down, past all the bluster and pride and obliviousness – he must recognise the shards of Merlin’s dignity, because he lays a hand on his shoulder. His hands are strong and comforting, warm from holding Merlin’s, and his servant scrapes his eyes from the floor.

“Maybe not all for nought,” Arthur says cryptically, anger replaced by the tiniest of smiles, and he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder gently.

The silence that stretches out after that could be filled with a million different things. Sunlight could paint them gold; they could continue to dance, laughing and trying not to drop each other on the floor. Hell, in an alternate universe, they could even fill it with love confessions: the wedding would change, with Merlin’s flower garlands celebrating the union all those prophets foretold.

In fact, it’s filled with none of these things. Just some slightly awkward eye contact and the clattering of kitchenware outside. Shouting that sounds suspiciously like Gwaine fills their ears.

“I have to get ready,” Arthur says. “Guinevere awaits.”

“Indeed she does, sire,” Merlin replies heavily, words thick with all those he cannot say.

Camelot’s King swishes out of the room, cheeks as red as his royal cloak, and Merlin is left behind in the empty hall. This time, however, the empty walls do not seem so oppressive. They remind Merlin of his place – a serving boy, nothing more – but also the opportunity shining through it: just an assistant he may be, but how many people can truly say they’ve saved their King’s life?

 _And not only that, but taught him to dance?_

A smile splits his cheeks involuntarily. Arthur may be marrying Gwen. But if Merlin has to help him through the years to come, he may as well do it dancing.

***

Later on, when the ceremony has finished and the first dance takes place, Arthur does not drop Guinevere. But he catches Merlin’s eye as he dips her, and the smile they share is shy and filled with promise – a hundred embarrassing incidents, a million moments shared. Mishaps on hunting trips and discussions by the fireside; being dragged into alcoves and taught how to dance. A mess. 

(A lovable mess, stitched together by the only the most inexperienced of prophets.) 

_Hand to hand combat,_ Merlin thinks fondly as Arthur spins his wife, the court band playing in his ears. _It’s not all for nought._

**Author's Note:**

> *crosses every appendage and hopes the fandom is as immortal as its protagonist*
> 
> I finished Merlin!! It broke me!! This is the result!!
> 
> (Throughout the show it's been my headcanon that Season 1 Arthur was head over heels for Merlin. He thought a relationship wasn't possible, suffered a little and then promptly fell for Gwen. Then Merlin started to notice him, and he's a little conflicted - hence this fic!)
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, Kev, for a) putting up with me in chemistry class, b) dealing with my excessive audience dialogue and c) helping me fail the mashups on Just Dance!
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed <3
> 
> \- Ish (dancingwithwings)


End file.
